


Topsy-Turvy

by mrs_leary (julie)



Category: Merlin (TV) RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Story within a Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 09:16:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11575041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julie/pseuds/mrs_leary
Summary: Rupert is jealous that Eoin wroteCold(Leopard) for Tom, so Eoin offers to write a film for Rupert. The  storyline isn’t quite what Rupert expected, though, and to be honest Eoin is  pretty surprised at himself, too.





	Topsy-Turvy

**Author's Note:**

> This includes excerpts from the screenplay Eoin is writing. I formatted them more for readability as part of the story rather than sticking strictly to the usual layout. Also, I imagine Eoin’s style in these initial drafts would be a little slapdash.
> 
> Also, I am not sure who took the lovely photo that I used for my banner. If anyone knows, I'd appreciate you passing that on, as I want to give credit where it's due.
> 
> Oops! With belated but heartfelt thanks to nympha_alba for the beta read!!! It was much appreciated.

♦

♦

# LIVERPOOL

The two of them were catching up with each other, having a beer in a pub near Albert Dock in Liverpool – a pub with Guinness on tap, of course – and Eoin was in the midst of his usual endless flow of storytelling, sitting slumped comfortably on a rickety old wooden chair. “And I swear I only closed my eyes for a moment, but when I opened them again it were the wee hours and the train was almost in Penzance –”

Penzance made Rupert think of pirates, and he let the next part of the story drift by him while he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and carefully considering Eoin, imagining how dashingly wicked the Irishman would look in pirate garb …

“– so they let me bunk on their sofa, but I did get the impression I could have shared their bed, too, if I weren’t a tad too wrecked to turn on the charm.” Eoin winked at Rupert, and favoured him with a roguish grin. 

“But who could ever resist that twinkle in your eyes?” Rupert argued, entirely rhetorically. “I’ve never seen it fail, no matter how wrecked you were.”

The roguish grin turned affectionate, and even somewhat fond. “True, and I thank you for your faith in my seduction skills,” Eoin lilted in his most charming tones, “but other things _would_ have failed, and judging by the way I just crashed as soon as I lay down, even my mouth and hands wouldn’t have done them much good.” 

Rupert just sat there staring across the tiny table at Eoin. The man still had the power to startle Rupert into silence – though obviously such things would never silence Eoin himself. He was already into the tale of what happened the next morning. Rupert watched him, but let the words flow by while he pondered on how masculine Eoin was, and also on how honest he could be, sometimes unbearably honest, about all the times when masculinity failed. Rupert didn’t know any other man who’d be so frank about the fact that sometimes he just couldn’t get it up … And yet Eoin obviously knew the shame and humiliation and failure that most men would feel, as he had certainly played That Scene in _Cold_ or _Leopard_ , or whatever the film was called now, with a brutal truth. Rupert had hardly been able to watch. Even now he felt his cheeks stain red.

“– and then I _finally_ made it to Liverpool yesterday morning. Thank God! But if I’d known you were here, Rupes, I would have been ‘more hurry, less haste’!”

“Is that even a thing?” Rupert asked, taking refuge in what he thought was their usual banter. Close enough, anyway. “Is that an actual Real Life saying?” 

“If it wasn’t, well, it is now.” Eoin was rarely fazed when challenged. “So,” he said, sitting up and leaning forward all in one fluid if somewhat graceless move that involved his whole body. Then Eoin was leaning his elbows on the table, too, and the two of them were abruptly face to face, mere inches apart. “So, what brings _you_ to Liverpool, Rupes?”

Rupert laughed – partly because, despite Eoin’s long rambling story, he still had no idea exactly why Eoin was in Liverpool. Partly because it was silly to mind his personal space being invaded, when it was by a man he’d known and thoroughly trusted for _years_ now. Rupert cleared his throat, and explained, “I’m doing some voice work with the BBC.” 

“Cool,” said Eoin, with a vigorous nod. 

Rupert shrugged. “Well,” he said, taking up his pint for a mouthful of ale, and then sitting back in his chair. “It’s only a voiceover.” He was very aware that he wasn’t creative like Eoin, he wasn’t a powerhouse of energy and talent, he wasn’t a writer or photographer or director, but only an actor, just an actor, and a middling one at that. 

Eoin would have none of his humility. “How many actors can make a good living at it? You’re a working actor, and a damned fine one, too. Proud of you,” Eoin added, with just a hint of gruffness, as if finally even he was moved enough to be a bit embarrassed. 

“I was at the Comic Con in Wrexham the other weekend,” Rupert said, not entirely inconsequentially. 

“Yeah, cool. Wish I could have been there. Heard all about it from Tom. Sounded like a riot!”

Rupert nodded. He didn’t quite know where he was going with this, but he went with it anyway. “The panels were good. Some really tough questions. Someone asked which of the knights we’d bring back to life.”

“Yeah? What did you say?”

“Tom said Gwaine, and everyone insisted on him saying why, and he said – he said you were his ‘special friend’.” Rupert’s tongue tripped as he half-echoed Tom’s intonation, the big man assuming a dignified air as he revealed his beautifully big heart – and then Rupert felt something inside of him stutter a little as Eoin’s fond smile turned piquant. Scrambling to avoid a descent into sheer sentiment, Rupert said, “I guess he meant that Gwaine was Percival’s special friend, but –”

Eoin fixed Rupert with a shrewd look, as if canny enough to read the truth exactly. 

Rupert stumbled on. “But you did write _Cold_ for him!”

“So I did, too,” Eoin equably agreed. A long moment passed, and then Eoin leaned in a little closer still to quietly ask, “Are you jealous, then, darlin’?”

“Oh, I don’t know about _jealous_ ,” Rupert said, grabbing up his pint so clumsily that the wet glass almost slipped through his fingers. Even he was aware that he was backpedalling. 

Eoin just considered him with those bright eyes for a long moment. It was as if he could see right into … not just Rupert’s heart, but his _soul_. And Rupert had forgotten he even had one of those.

Apparently Eoin at least glimpsed what he was looking for, though, because eventually he backed off just enough to let Rupert relax, and he said, “I could write _you_ a film.”

“You could?” Rupert took a moment. He was surprised – then he wondered _why_ he was surprised – except that of course he wasn’t Eoin’s special friend. But, also of course, he should be encouraging such a notion. “What would it be about?”

Eoin considered him some more – enough that Rupert started feeling a tad self-conscious. He hated that. It was literally the last thing that an actor wanted to feel. 

“Well now,” Eoin eventually said. “I’m gonna have to give that some thought.”

“OK …”

“But, er … I like the idea of … for you … an ordinary life … turned inside out and upside down.”

“By what?”

“By me, of course!”

“Of course,” Rupert flatly agreed. 

Eoin’s enthusiasm was not dimmed one watt. “There you are one day … watching the telly while doing your chores … Just living a regular life.” Eoin lifted one dark brow in a query. “What would you be doin’ while the telly’s on in the background?”

“Ironing a shirt?” Rupert suggested. Couldn’t get much more mundane than that. 

“Cool, yeah. You’re on your own. Ironing a shirt. And not paying much attention to anything else. But then something on the TV catches your eye.”

“You?” Rupert asked in sceptical tones. 

Eoin, for some reason, flushed a little. “No, not me. Not yet.”

“What, then?”

“That’s what I have to figure out.”

“All right,” Rupert said with a shrug. He didn’t really expect this to go anywhere. The fledgling idea, such as it was, would get lost in the midst of Eoin’s chaotic creative life. Nothing would come of it. 

But Eoin nodded firmly and echoed, “All right, then,” as if it were already agreed. Then he stood and stepped up to the bar to order another round.

♦

INT. RUPERT’S LIVING ROOM – DAY 

One afternoon on an aimless weekend. RUPERT is ironing a shirt. The clean laundry is a haphazard pile on the sofa. 

The TV is on quietly, running a STORAGE HUNTERS type of show (set in UK). A MAN (CHRISTOPHER) has won the bid on an abandoned storage locker, and is starting to look through what’s inside. Opening boxes. Rummaging.

RUPERT isn’t paying much attention to the TV or the ironing. His mind is elsewhere.

Then suddenly something on the TV catches RUPERT’s eye. CHRISTOPHER is looking through an old photograph album with sepia photos of men in army gear (warm weather barrack dress, worn rumpled and askew) with backgrounds of jungle, barracks, tents, trucks, jeeps, more jungle, etc. 

RUPERT walks closer to the TV to peer at a group photo of five or six men. Then he turns to look at the framed photos on top of the upright piano. He walks over to pick one up. It’s the same photo as we just saw on the TV.

RUPERT (under his breath): “What the – ?”

♦

“You do know I can’t play the piano?” Rupert said. 

“Well,” Eoin replied, obviously thinking on his feet, “then I guess it was your mother’s. You inherited it when she passed. She’d loved it so much that you couldn’t bear to get rid of it. Maybe the photos were hers, too.”

Rupert nodded. “OK.”

Eoin sat back, his hands tapping out a nervous beat on the arms of his chair. “So? Like it so far?”

It was the very next day, and Eoin had showed up unexpectedly at the BBC offices, demanding to see Rupert just as soon as there was a break in the day’s recording. So now they were sitting in the nearest café, with coffees on the table between them, still untouched. Apparently Eoin had dashed off the first couple of scenes of this putative film of theirs in a fit of inspiration, and had printed it out at his hotel. Honestly … Rupert really hadn’t expected this at all. 

“What’s the connection with the photo?” Rupert asked. 

“Keep reading,” Eoin said, arching his brow enigmatically.

♦

INT. RUPERT’S LIVING ROOM – DAY (LATER)

The ironing has been abandoned. RUPERT is pacing back and forth, talking on his phone. 

RUPERT: “The thing is, my grandfather was in that photo. I have a copy of it here. It was the same photo, I’m sure of it.”

A pause, as if the WOMAN he’s talking to is taking this in. Finally: 

WOMAN’S VOICE (over the phone): “Are you saying that … you think the storage locker might have belonged to your grandfather?”

RUPERT: “No! I thought that –” (frowns) “Well! I guess that’s possible. There was always … a bit of a mystery about him. But I was assuming the locker belonged to one of the other men in the photo. Or his descendants. And it would be good to … connect. You know?”

WOMAN’S VOICE: “I understand.”

RUPERT: “If they could tell me something more about him, even the smallest thing. I wasn’t even ten when he passed.”

WOMAN’S VOICE: “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr XXX.”

RUPERT: “Thank you, but it was a long time ago now.”

WOMAN’S VOICE: “I didn’t watch that episode, but I know the man you mean. The storage hunter. Christopher XXX. I’ll get in touch with him and see what he can tell me. But don’t get your hopes up too far, Mr XXX. It was filmed weeks ago. Maybe months. He might not remember what happened to the photos, or any of those goods.”

RUPERT: “Of course. Thank you.”

WOMAN’S VOICE: “And it’s unlikely you’ll be able to get in touch with the owners of the photo album itself. I mean, the whole point of the show is that the lockers were abandoned.”

Brief pause while RUPERT realises it’s probably a lost cause. But he has to try.

RUPERT: “I understand. I’d appreciate anything you can do …”

♦

“Triple X?” Rupert remarked. “Does that mean Vin Diesel is going to make an appearance?”

“You wish!” Eoin exclaimed with a happy wink. “Nah … If you wanna think up our last names, go right ahead.”

“OK …” Rupert nodded, glancing back over the pages of script. “OK, so I’m intrigued. That’s a good sign, right?”

Eoin’s happiness turned positively joyful, and he beamed at Rupert. “A very good sign.”

“So, what’s the mystery with the grandfather?”

Another cheeky wink – and, unexpectedly, disconcertingly, something within Rupert squirmed in delight at this attention from Eoin Macken. 

“Ah, yeah … the mystery,” said Eoin. “I dunno yet! That’s what I’ve got to find out!”

♦

# LONDON

Rupert was anticipating a boring day at home, catching up with things while avoiding a script he was meant to read – so it didn’t throw out his plans when Eoin turned up at his apartment door unannounced, or at least not in any way he really cared about. “Hey,” Rupert genially greeted him. “What’s happening?”

“Thought I’d come over and get some writing done,” Eoin replied, walking in past Rupert as if it had never even crossed his mind he couldn’t be confident of a welcome. 

Rupert smiled wryly, and followed Eoin through to the kitchen. “For our film?” he asked. “Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee, cheers.” Eoin was already pulling his laptop out of his backpack, and then looking around to work out which seats at the kitchen table were most convenient to an electrical outlet. “Yeah, well,” Eoin continued once he was settling in – “you _are_ my inspiration, after all, Rupes!”

That earned him a guffaw, and a mug of coffee from the last of the cafetière. Rupert put the kettle on, to make another pot. Eoin was watching him while the laptop booted up – watching him gently, but … with curiosity. Yes, a gentle curiosity. It was absurdly flattering to have this man really paying him proper attention. Rupert tried to deflect him a little. “Have you written any more? How far have you got?”

“Yeah, some. Sketched out another couple of scenes. There’s one I want to work on – I want to skip ahead a bit to when you first come to my house – and I want you to read it when I’m done.”

“Sure,” said Rupert with an encouraging nod. “Cool.” He brought the fresh cafetière over to the table, plunged it and poured himself another mugful, and then left the rest in easy reach for Eoin. “Look, I’ve got chores to do, so are you OK there if I’m pottering around?”

“Sure,” Eoin echoed with a sweet smile. 

“I won’t disturb you?” 

Eoin’s smile broadened. “Mate, when I’m inspired, _nothing_ disturbs me.” 

Rupert couldn’t help but grin in response, and then he forced himself to turn away and fetch the hamper of dirty laundry. 

♦

They passed an odd kind of day together. It was _pleasant_. In the very best of ways. It had been a long time since Rupert shared a home with anyone, and he didn’t really miss it, but there was something so unexpectedly _comfortable_ about having Eoin around. 

When Eoin was concentrating, he was either wholly focussed on the screen with his fingers tapping out a staccato rhythm on the keys, or else entirely absorbed by his thoughts with his gaze fixed unseeing out the window or on some random kitchen implement. When Eoin needed some down time he’d come find Rupert, and hang around to chat, or help if he saw something useful he could do. Somehow, all of this made Rupert’s chores almost … enjoyable. 

Rupert made up two rounds of sandwiches for lunch, and they indulged in a bottle of beer each, outside on the little patio with clean washing flapping brightly in the mild sunshine. And then Rupert found himself just naturally settling at the kitchen table with that script he’d been meant to read before he went to Liverpool, and, while Eoin tapped away at another scene, Rupert gave serious thought as to whether he could play yet another noble knight. 

When he finally reached ‘FADE TO BLACK’, Rupert sat back – and found that Eoin was quietly watching him. _Really_ watching him, looking at Rupert as if he could see past the surface layers and into the core of him. It would have been unnerving, if Eoin’s expression wasn’t so … soft. Soft in a good way.

“Any good?” Eoin asked, tipping a nod towards the script. 

Rupert cleared his throat and sat up properly. “Yeah, it’s not bad. Olivia – my agent – thinks it’ll be the next big thing. But my part’s pretty much Sir Leon all over again.”

Eoin nodded, and grimaced as if he were all too familiar with the phenomenon. But he offered, “You’re great at that, though, and I know it’s harder than it looks to get the balance right. There’s nothing in there you could work on? Take it into slightly different territory?” 

“Maybe,” said Rupert. He smiled, and nodded in turn at the laptop. “How’s yours coming along?”

“Good … Good.” Though Eoin dropped his gaze, and when he continued his tone was that of a confession. “Think this’ll be different territory for ya, anyway. Here, read this scene.” He tapped out a command, and then pushed the laptop towards Rupert. 

♦

EXT. CHRISTOPHER’S SHACK – DAY 

CHRISTOPHER lives in a small shack in front of a huge hotchpotch of sheds, etc. Various bits of time’s flotsam and jetsam spill out the shed doors and are stacked along the walls, etc. But the place looks relatively organised, clean and business-like. 

RUPERT walks up to the shack’s front door, equal parts confidence and hesitance. He has the framed photo in his hands. 

RUPERT pauses a moment, glances down at the photo, then knocks at the door. 

No response. 

After another moment or two, RUPERT knocks again. 

He’s just about to knock a third time when the door opens. 

RUPERT: “Oh, hello, uh, Mr XXX. I’m Rupert XXX. I came about the photo album you found.”

CHRISTOPHER is silent. Just staring at him inscrutably. There’s a flicker of interest in his eyes, but RUPERT doesn’t see it. 

RUPERT (uncertainly): “They said they’d called you. Did I get the time wrong – or the day?”

CHRISTOPHER indicates the photo with a lift of his chin. RUPERT shows it to him. 

RUPERT: “Is it the same photo, do you think?”

CHRISTOPHER (voice rusty): “Which one’s yours?” 

RUPERT: “This one. My grandfather – on my mother’s side. This was taken during his National Service. I hardly knew him, to be honest, but he was a sweet old gent.”

Finally CHRISTOPHER nods and takes a step back, beckons RUPERT in.

INT. CHRISTOPHER’S SHACK – DAY (CONTINUOUS)

The shack is only one or two rooms. It’s scrupulously clean and tidy, but nothing matches, and it has a ramshackle air. 

The photo album is waiting on a table. CHRISTOPHER leads RUPERT there, then leafs through for the photo. He finds it very quickly, as if he’s familiar with the contents, and then indicates RUPERT should sit down to look at it. 

RUPERT compares the photo in the album with the one in his hand. 

RUPERT: “It is the same, isn’t it? Huh!” He looks up at CHRISTOPHER standing at his shoulder. “Do you know which one of them owned the album?”

CHRISTOPHER points out one of the other figures – the man standing close beside RUPERT’s grandfather. 

RUPERT: “God, that’s incredible. Do you mind if I look through? There might be more photos of my grandad.”

CHRISTOPHER looks at him a bit quizzically. Then: “All right.”

He watches RUPERT turn back to the start of the album, handling it carefully, and start to carefully examine each page. 

They are both silent. 

Then CHRISTOPHER goes to light the gas-ring under a kettle, and reaches for a battered old teapot. 

INT. CHRISTOPHER’S SHACK – DAY (LATER)

There’s only one chair, so CHRISTOPHER is sitting on the narrow, neatly made bed. They each have a mug at hand, drinking the last of the tea. 

RUPERT reaches the end of the album, and closes it reverently. Then he looks up at CHRISTOPHER. 

RUPERT: “That’s incredible. My grandad’s in there so often I lost track of them all! Was there anything else with the album? Any other photos or memorabilia?”

CHRISTOPHER pauses, and then shakes his head decisively. No.

RUPERT: “Well, could I make an offer on this? I don’t know how much it would be worth to anyone else, but I’d love to have it.” 

CHRISTOPHER is looking massively reluctant. 

RUPERT: “I can pay cash. Really. I mean, any reasonable amount.” He is confused by CHRISTOPHER’s lack of response. “I mean, that’s what it’s all about for you, isn’t it? Finding stuff, and selling it on? It’s a business!”

CHRISTOPHER (gratingly): “Not this time.” 

CHRISTOPHER stands and looms threateningly. He suddenly seems as rough and dark as a storm. 

RUPERT is unnerved, suddenly aware that he’s alone and in unknown territory. He gets up, the chair clatters back on the floor. Though he’s taller than CHRISTOPHER, he’s also far more civilised. 

RUPERT: “Right, well, I’ll –” He backs away to the door, is relieved to find it unlocked. Stumbles out through it. 

CHRISTOPHER follows as far as the door, watches RUPERT off the property, then shuts the door firmly. 

After a long moment, CHRISTOPHER relaxes a little. He goes over to dig out a box from somewhere out of sight. He takes it over to the table, rights the chair, and sits down. And then begins looking through a collection of letters and so on, all from the same place and era as the photo album. 

♦

“Oh god!” Rupert exclaimed. “This is great! Talk about a page-turner.” He glanced up to find that Eoin was looking oddly reserved. “What’s the big secret?” Rupert asked. “Why didn’t Christopher share the letters with him? With Rupert,” he amended, though it felt odd to say his own name.

Eoin had become as uncommunicative as Christopher. Apparently he’d already gathered up the rest of his gear while Rupert was reading, and now he powered down the laptop, and slid it into his backpack. “Glad it’s working for ya,” he said – and then he stood, hefting his bag over a shoulder. “I’ll be off, then.”

“Already?” Rupert protested, even though he figured there was nothing he could do about it. He’d felt sure, somehow, that Eoin would stay for dinner at least, and maybe for the whole evening. But one didn’t argue with one’s guests. “All right,” Rupert equably agreed. 

He was following Eoin through to the little hallway – and then just at the last moment, as Rupert was about to reach past Eoin’s shoulder to unlatch the door, Eoin turned on the spot and said “ _Rupes_ ” in strangely urgent tones – and Rupert was so surprised that he took a step back, ricocheted off the wall, and ended up almost falling face-first into Eoin. 

Rupert made a noise that he trusted _wasn’t_ a squawk, and then managed, ‘Yes?”

Eoin just stared at him for long moments. 

Another bout of self-consciousness threatened. Rupert swallowed, and took a deliberate breath. 

Then Eoin pushed – alarmingly – closer still, and asked, “Don’t you see? Can’t you guess? I mean – the _letters_ … !”

“Uh … No. What?”

Maybe Rupert overacted the ‘honest confusion’, but at least it had the intended effect. Eoin backed off again, and mumbled something along the lines of, “Never mind. Next time!” And he was out the door, and Rupert was on the wrong side of it, somehow – though he was home, he was in his own home, so how could this be the wrong side? Rupert stood there leaning against the door, just trying to catch his breath.

♦

# LONDON (LATER)

He spent the next couple of days deliberately _not_ thinking about it. But Rupert figured he knew. He didn’t want to think about _what_ he knew, but it was there in the back of his mind the whole time, making him edgy with unease. 

At last Eoin showed up again at Rupert’s place one afternoon, unannounced but not entirely unexpected. He didn’t say much. Just sat in the same spot at the kitchen table, booted up his laptop, and then pushed it over towards Rupert in exchange for a mug of coffee. 

Rupert took a breath and sat down, leaving an empty chair between him and Eoin. Braced himself for what lay ahead. And wasn’t at all reassured when he saw that the opening of the next scene in the script echoed what was happening in reality. 

♦

INT. RUPERT’S LIVING ROOM – DAY 

RUPERT is trying to pay attention to (a book? his laptop?) but is instead lost in daydreams. He is startled by a knock at the front door. 

INT. RUPERT’S HALLWAY – DAY (CONTINUOUS)

RUPERT is even more startled to find CHRISTOPHER on his doorstep with the photo album hugged against his chest in both arms. CHRISTOPHER stares up at him. 

RUPERT: “Oh! Hello. Uh …” He looks at the album. “Well, you’d better come in.”

CHRISTOPHER walks in past him, and through into the living room. 

INT. RUPERT’S LIVING ROOM – DAY (CONTINUOUS)

RUPERT follows him in, and waits while CHRISTOPHER turns in place, taking a look about. CHRISTOPHER’s attention is snagged by – the framed photos? The piano? But after a moment he loosens his hold on the photo album just a little bit, and shifts it in RUPERT’s general direction.

CHRISTOPHER (voice rusty): “You should have this.”

RUPERT (warily): “All right.” He pulls out his wallet. “How much?”

CHRISTOPHER shakes his head, and holds it out properly towards RUPERT – who takes it, but is still wary.

RUPERT: “Let me give you something. Make coming here worth your while. Would fifty pounds be reasonable?” He frowns. “How did you know where I live, anyway?”

CHRISTOPHER: “Called the station. Know they shouldn’t have told me. I said we made a deal, but I wrote down your address wrong.” 

RUPERT is aware this is the most CHRISTOPHER has ever said to him all at once. He goes to put down the album, and gestures with his wallet. 

RUPERT: “All right. How much?”

CHRISTOPHER: “Don’t want your money. Just read this. All right?” He is holding out one of the letters. “That’s the price for the album. Just read this.” 

RUPERT takes the letter from him, and settles on the sofa to read it. He is frowning in puzzlement. The envelope is addressed to ‘Mr R. XXX’.

RUPERT: “It’s to my grandfather. I was named for him.” He takes out the letter and begins reading.

RUPERT is startled into shivering when he hears PIANO MUSIC. He looks up to see CHRISTOPHER playing the piano – at first picking out a simple melody as if as rusty at that as talking. 

After a moment, RUPERT keeps reading. And is even more startled.

RUPERT: “It’s a love letter!”

CHRISTOPHER is already deep into the music though, playing something emotional, poignant, dramatic. 

RUPERT reaches the end of the letter, which is signed ‘John’. He stares at the masculine name. Turns the letter back over to look again at the ‘Dear Rupert’. After a long moment, he looks back up at CHRISTOPHER.

RUPERT: “What is this?”

CHRISTOPHER keeps playing.

RUPERT: What _is_ this?!”

CHRISTOPHER finally breaks off, and turns to RUPERT. 

CHRISTOPHER: “That man standing next to your grandad in the photo. John XXX. They were – lovers.”

RUPERT is astonished. Speechless. Eventually CHRISTOPHER continues. 

CHRISTOPHER: “Not saying he didn’t love your grandma, but he had this other thing happenin’ as well. At least … while they were overseas.”

RUPERT (eventually): “No, I – Well. I remember my grandparents as always being happy. Fond of each other. Maybe not the romance of the century …”

CHRISTOPHER: “Not saying he had that with John either. But it was something. It was real.”

RUPERT: “They were married just before he left on the National Service. She was already expecting my mum. A pressure cooker baby, they called it. He – he came home to them, anyway.”

CHRISTOPHER nods. They are both silent for a long moment. Eventually CHRISTOPHER stands and steps towards the hallway, as if ready to go. 

RUPERT (standing): “Wait! Is there more? More letters, photos? Anything!”

CHRISTOPHER turns back to him, not answering. He can’t meet RUPERT’s gaze, though. RUPERT reads him correctly.

RUPERT: “There is, isn’t there? There’s more. But you want to keep it. Why? You’re not – That would be too big a coincidence. You’re not related to the other guy, are you?”

CHRISTOPHER shakes his head. No. 

RUPERT: “I feel like … this is my one chance to know my grandad better. I mean, I _knew_ him – but only part of him.”

CHRISTOPHER doesn’t respond. 

RUPERT thinks about it, staring hard at CHRISTOPHER. Eventually he tentatively suggests the unavoidable interpretation. 

RUPERT: “You … like their story. You want to keep it for yourself. Maybe you identify.” A pause, which CHRISTOPHER doesn’t break. “Are you gay?”

CHRISTOPHER (looks at him directly): “Yeah.” Then, bluntly: “Are you?”

RUPERT: “Yes.”

Abruptly CHRISTOPHER turns away and lowers his head to hide his face. He takes another small step towards the hallway. 

RUPERT (gently, reassuringly): “Hey, it’s all right.”

CHRISTOPHER (with some bitterness): “Is it?”

RUPERT is already heading towards him, but at this he ducks low enough to recapture CHRISTOPHER’s gaze, which lifts to his. CHRISTOPHER is aching with hunger, loneliness, need. 

And instead of being scared away, RUPERT’s expression softens in sympathy. Empathy. 

RUPERT (murmurs): “Yes, it’s absolutely fine.”

He slowly lifts his hands to cup CHRISTOPHER’s face. And leans in to kiss him.

♦

Rupert tried to scroll down the page, but there was no more. He looked up at Eoin, who was staring rather self-consciously at the table between them. “What the hell’s that about?” Rupert asked. 

“You saw it coming,” Eoin asserted. 

“I guess. But _why_? I mean, you say you’ll write a film for me, and _that’s_ where you go? Tell me why!”

Eoin scoffed, and darted a glance at him – and Rupert’s stomach plummeted as he suddenly thought that he might not want to know. 

But Eoin apparently decided to go with something that could pass as sarcastic banter if need be. “Every time I see you on stage, you’re kissing a woman. Sometimes more than one. Figured you must have some special skillset along those lines.”

“Oh yeah, sure,” Rupert responded in similar tones. “I’m averaging about one-and-a-half co-stars per play.”

“Looks like you know what you’re doing, too.”

“Of course I do!”

Eoin stared at him silently. 

Rupert doubled the sarcasm, and continued, “I suppose now you’re going to ask me to rehearse that scene with you.”

“Mebbe,” Eoin quietly replied. _Maybe_.

Rupert gestured in frustration at the script, which didn’t even describe the kiss, let alone – “What happens next?” Rupert demanded. 

“I don’t know yet.”

“Well, what do you _want_ to happen?”

And Eoin sounded so woebegone when he repeated, “I don’t know.” Rupert’s heart went out to him, just as he had felt the fictional Rupert’s heart going out to meet Christopher’s halfway. All the way. They were both so very lonely, after all.

Rupert closed the laptop, and then he shifted across to the chair just round the corner of the table from Eoin’s. Eoin sat there quietly, as if waiting to see how this would play out. As if willing to go with wherever Rupert took it. A quiet Eoin should probably feel uncanny, but for good or ill Rupert had always trusted him. So Rupert leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. Lifted his hands to cup Eoin’s face. Just as Eoin had described. Slowly closed the distance, and met Eoin’s mouth with his own. 

He kept it professional. There was a technique to it, of course, though Rupert knew it _looked_ convincing. It looked passionate. More of a mouthing than a kissing, and absolutely no tongue, nothing intrusive. Nothing personal. What he might _want_ didn’t enter into it. 

When Rupert drew away, he saw Eoin full of yearning. Eoin lifted a hand to keep Rupert’s palm close against his cheek, lifted the other hand to grasp at Rupert’s shoulder, to tug him near again. “No,” Eoin said, his voice rough with wanting. “Give it me for _real_.”

And the strangeness had already passed, the first time Rupert had ever kissed a man was over and done with, his reluctance was long gone. Rupert secured his hold, and pushed in to kiss Eoin Christopher Macken for real.

♦

The passion ignited surprisingly quickly for something that was so new to him. Urgency crashed through the core of him, and they caught each other up, hands hard and the kiss turning relentless. They stood without loosening their hold, knocking a chair over in the rush, and then Rupert dragged Eoin closer – turned to prop his own rear on the edge of the table so they were more of a height, and dragged Eoin to press close against him, their legs interleaving. There was no time even to undo their jeans – the heat of Eoin hard against his thigh ran through Rupert like wildfire, and he barely even allowed Eoin a moment in which to adjust himself. Rupert’s hands pushed back through Eoin’s hair, and he grabbed a fistful, tugging with only just enough gentleness to avoid any pain – and then he ran the other hand down to grasp Eoin’s hip, to force him hard and harder against him. Then they were rutting against each other, a pure primal instinct to seek maximal pleasure in minimal time, and who cared if they were about to come in their pants like schoolboys, it just _had_ to be that way. And Eoin was groaning into their kiss, his hands running roughly down Rupert’s back – and then he bit at Rupert’s lower lip, gnawed at it hungrily – and the sensation spiked through him, and Rupert came like that, thrusting up hard against Eoin’s wiry strength, muffling a shout against Eoin’s throat then his chest as the other man arched back taut as a bow, feeling the sensations echo and rebound between them as Eoin came, too. And afterwards there was no pulling away, there was no sudden distaste. They simply tucked their heads in next together, wrapped their arms around each other, and stayed there, leaning heavily against the table, leaning warmly against each other, a matching pair of satiated creatures, content to simply be.

♦

They ended up helping each other through to the living room, where they sat together on the sofa, still pressed close, arms still encompassing waists and shoulders. Eoin seemed oddly quiet, though he didn’t seem unhappy. Rupert was lazily doing foolish things such as matching their hands together palm to palm, and then tracing the outlines of Eoin’s ears and the curve of his biceps, and then carding his fingers through Eoin’s hair. Eoin not only let him, but he soaked it up as if experiencing the innocent play as sensuous.

Eoin seemed disinclined to talk, but after a while Rupert said, “So, that script … Was it just a way of propositioning me?”

That drew a reluctant smile from Eoin. “I think … we should also make a film together.”

“I think we should, too,” Rupert agreed in easy tones. “After all, it seems we have a certain chemistry between us.”

“Is that what you call it?” Eoin asked, apparently amused. 

“For now,” said Rupert. “That’s what I call it for now.”

♦

# MONTAGE

Rupert hadn’t been prepared to give Eoin a less equivocal answer than that in the aftermath of whatever their encounter had been. And soon after that, Eoin was leaving through Rupert’s front door again, with as little explanation as when he’d arrived. Rupert was content for now to let it all be a bit of a mystery.

But he regretted that, a few days later, when he realised Eoin had already gone to the States to start filming the next season of _Night Shift_. They’d exchanged a handful of bantering Tweets while Eoin was still in the UK, and that had been that. 

‘Still writing?’ Rupert had sent at some stage. ‘Wondering how that last scene plays out!’

‘It’s coming, slow but sure,’ Eoin replied, with a winking emoticon. 

The chemistry, meanwhile, seemed to be continuing of its own accord – at least within Rupert. As if kissing Eoin had kicked off a chain reaction in Rupert that he was powerless to prevent. Something inside him had changed. Something pretty significant to deal with, for a man. 

‘What happens next?’ Rupert Tweeted later, wondering if he really wanted a response in this all-too-public forum, and why on earth weren’t they texting in private instead? ‘How does the storyline develop?’

‘You’ll be the second to know,’ was Eoin’s enigmatic response. 

Rupert tried to think up something witty along the lines of his skillset needing more practice, his acting more guidance, his research more hands-on experience – but he couldn’t quite come up with the right words that would be plain to Eoin and opaque to everyone else. 

And then suddenly it seemed all too late, when the first of Eoin’s behind-the-scenes _Night Shift_ photos appeared on Instagram.

As if Eoin could read Rupert’s mind, though – even now that he was half a planet away – a random Tweet eventually chimed its arrival on Rupert’s phone. ‘I was right about your mad skills, yeah.’

Rupert almost gulped, but he was in company, so he converted it to a hard swallow, almost choked, and then ostentatiously cleared his throat. A few moments later he was searching for airfares to the States.

♦

# ALBUQUERQUE

Eoin didn’t seem to be expecting Rupert to turn up on the doorstep of his apartment, judging from the blank look on his face. Rupert’s fine confidence promptly deflated. Had Eoin really not wanted to see Rupert throughout filming the whole damned _Night Shift_ season … ? That would be months! Rupert’s heart hammered a protest – and he blearily wondered when that organ had become involved in this misguided madness.

“Come in, then,” Eoin eventually said about a hundred years later, starting to look somewhat friendlier. Or at least _act_ a little friendlier.

“All right,” said Rupert, stepping past and parking his wheelie suitcase just by the door, ready for a quick exit. “Sorry if I –”

“– was just gonna have a beer,” Eoin was saying. “Looks like you’re in dire need of one, too.”

“Oh.” He glanced about for a mirror, wondering how awful he looked. Jetlag never did anyone any favours. Not that Eoin hadn’t already seen him at his worst a million times, and anyway they were doomed if Rupert’s looks were at all important. Maybe he was still in his prime, but he’d been starting to think that the end of his prime was beginning to loom threateningly on the far horizon … “We’re running out of time,” Rupert found himself muttering.

“What’s that?” Eoin asked, coming over with an opened bottle of beer in each hand, and passing one across the space between them. Too near and too far.

“God, _nothing_ ,” Rupert replied. “Really nothing. Do everyone a favour, and never ask me to adlib! I just talk absolute rubbish.”

Eoin was contemplating him, and looking as if he really _really_ wanted to say something. 

“I hardly know myself,” Rupert supplied. 

“What?”

“I mean, if you’re going to ask me what I’m doing here.”

Eoin shrugged in his shambolically elegant way, and took a long mouthful of beer. “Figured you wanted to know what happens next.”

“Um …”

“In the script, of course. And, you know, I’m just kind of feeling my way at the moment. But for Christopher it’s all about the piano.”

“The piano?” Rupert echoed rather vaguely. 

Eoin led him over to the ‘living area’ part of the open-plan room, and they sat on the sofa, each of them perched on the edge and leaning forward with elbows on knees, taking gulps of the beer while trying not to look too desperate. 

“Go on, then,” Rupert eventually prompted. “Tell me.”

“For Rupert it’s all about the letters, and for Christopher it’s all about the piano.”

“Oh,” said Rupert, trying not to sound disappointed. “So they each have something the other wants. What … do they end up just exchanging things, then?”

Eoin frowned at him as if Rupert were being exceptionally stupid. “It’s a _metaphor_.”

“Ah.”

“Put them together,” Eoin explained with exaggerated patience, “and there’s music. Right?”

“And love,” Rupert blurted out before he could think about it once let alone twice. “The letters represent love.”

Eoin was now eyeing him rather more warily. He didn’t say anything, but sat up straighter, and took a long swallow of beer.

“We should try that,” Rupert continued in much the same spirit. 

“What? _Love?”_

“That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” A pause lengthened, and Rupert couldn’t bear the silence. “You started this, Eoin. What did you _think_ it was about?”

“I swear to God, I really don’t know any more.” Eoin took a moment, and then said, “It’s about making a film.”

“Is it?” Rupert challenged him. “What happens next, then?”

A flash from those dark eyes, and Eoin turned away. And usually _he_ was the one who said the unsayable, who was unbearably honest. Well. If Eoin wasn’t going to be reckless, Rupert supposed _he_ could be brave.

“I don’t know where this came from,” Rupert confessed in low tones. “You surprised me. That’s an understatement. But I think I know where it could go. If that’s what we want. Not that I have a piano to bring to this …” 

Eoin darted a glance both humoured and impatient. 

Rupert continued on. “The thing is, I don’t know how many more chances we’ll get. Maybe a few. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t grab one and go with it while we can. When it’s sitting there waiting for us.”

Eoin had shifted a little. Just enough to be watching him. Watching him carefully.

“What we did. Back at my place …” Rupert’s courage almost faded away then, but he somehow found the conviction to blurt out with a complete lack of cool, “That was hot. Damned hot.”

An eloquent shrug indicated something like, ‘Of course it was! So what? I just feel helpless about the whole thing. I don’t even have any words.’

“We should try that again.”

It was Eoin’s turn to blurt: “What, like, in cold blood?” And he shivered – almost _shuddered_ – and Rupert knew exactly what he feared. 

“Trust me,” said Rupert. And even though until a few days ago he had never imagined himself doing anything like this, he reached a hand to take Eoin’s firmly in his, and tugged the man closer while shifting near himself – and Rupert kissed him with intent.

♦

But, this time, it didn’t work. It didn’t suddenly become straightforward. They weren’t carried away by the passion. Or, at least, Eoin wasn’t, and Rupert quickly felt discouraged.

He pulled back a little, real doubts dawning for the first time. “Did you think we’d just flirt?” Rupert asked. Eoin was a scoundrel of a flirt, after all. Always had been. “I took it too seriously, didn’t I?” Rupert muttered. “When we – After we –” After they’d indulged in the impromptu fully-clothed sex, buying a ticket to the States had seemed the obvious thing for Rupert to do. But maybe the obvious thing was Eoin leaving England without seeing him again, without saying anything personal, or even texting him. Just exchanging those few very public bantering Tweets. “I got this wrong,” Rupert concluded, shifting away.

But: “No,” Eoin finally stuttered as if he could hardly even find his voice. His hand grasped at Rupert’s just in time so they didn’t lose the last physical connection between them. “No. I just – surprised myself. Sometimes when you’re writing – it goes in directions you don’t expect. The whole thing turns upside down and inside out.”

“I didn’t expect this either,” Rupert agreed, holding onto Eoin’s hand with what he hoped was warmth. “But here we are.”

Eoin offered him a complex smile that contained chagrin and pleasure, hope and sorrow, truth and irony. “As a writer, you learn to trust those times. It’s like the Muse talking on a direct channel. You learn to go with it.”

“To go with your instincts? Not so different to making choices in acting, then.”

Eoin’s bright dark eyes suddenly fixed on Rupert. Something within Eoin had shifted, as if all at once everything made sense. “My instincts were wiser than me.”

“Until now,” Rupert agreed.

“Yeah, I finally caught up.” 

And Eoin shifted close again, and Rupert leaned in, gathering him up and finally starting a proper kiss, a kiss so full and heartfelt it seemed like it would reverberate through their entire lives.

♦

“Think I need to lie down for the next bit,” Eoin eventually murmured, in tones rough with need. 

“No doubts any more?” Rupert asked – before having belated second thoughts. Raising the possibility of doubts could not be conducive to conquering them, if they existed. Meanwhile, though, Rupert was drawing Eoin closer still, and shifting back down on the sofa so they were mostly lying along it. Rupert was too tall, of course, but he was used to folding up as necessary. And this way, Eoin ended up cradled between his thighs, which he had to say felt very promising. _Oh god, Eoin …_ The man in Rupert’s arms was lithe and solid, strong and slim, hot and light. _Perfect, dear god … Perfect!_

Eoin twisted, beautifully supple, and was mouthing kisses into the juncture of Rupert’s neck and shoulder, and then up to the tender place hidden behind his earlobe. “No doubts at all,” Eoin rumbled. They were pressed so close together that the inherent promise conveyed itself in not only words but vibrations, and all was right in their newfound world.

Rupert groaned, and growled, and dived in to capture Eoin’s mouth with his own again. 

♦

INT. RUPERT’S BEDROOM – NIGHT 

The room is dark, but for moonlight spilling through the window. RUPERT is lying sprawled naked on his bed, utterly satisfied, almost too tired to smile, already more than half asleep. 

CHRISTOPHER, likewise happy and naked, pads quietly into the room, and climbs into the bed, bringing the duvet up with him. RUPERT turns to curl up, and CHRISTOPHER curls around him. They are completely comfortable together.

CHRISTOPHER leans up on an elbow to watch RUPERT for a few quiet moments. He gently runs fingers through RUPERT’s hair.

RUPERT stirs and murmurs: “All right?”

CHRISTOPHER: “Perfect.”

He settles in close with his head on the same pillow, and they both drift off to sleep. Perfect. Yes.

FADE TO BLACK

♦

 


End file.
